A Perfect Cornish Summer
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Sam prevented Gareth from escaping down her legs and under Zennor’s feet. ‘Yeah. How about you?’
Zennor put the glasses on the coffee table. She flopped down onto the sofa beside Sam, sipped her mojito and let out a deep sigh.
‘What a day I’ve had. Our biggest client keeps changing their mind over their new corporate logo. Fifteen times we’ve reworked the bloody thing and the MD has finally deigned to look at the designs and wants us to revisit the original one.’ She sipped again as Sam listened, trying to focus on Zennor’s brain dump. ‘Then the wifi packed up for three hours – three whole sodding hours – just when we needed to test out the garden centre website we’ve been working on like for evah. And when I called the bank to sort out the charges on our account, the fuckwit at the call centre asked me to spell my name four times and asked me if I was named after a laxative? I have no idea what he meant but personally, I thought it was as funny as stepping in dog poo.’
‘So rude,’ said Sam, echoing one of Zennor’s favourite phrases while putting off the news about Gabe’s return as festival headliner. Gareth was squirming on the pillow, clearly ready to join Harry for a bit of a kickabout on the carpet, so she gently returned him to the field of play where the pigs started nudging a ball around.
Zennor sipped her drink again and leaned back against the couch. ‘Why can’t I be called something simple and normal like Emma or Kelly? It would be so much easier.’
‘At least you were named after a beautiful mermaid,’ said Sam. ‘Mum called me after a plant. I mean – have you ever met another Samphire?’
‘No, but you do go so beautifully with a nice piece of fish.’
Sam laughed. ‘I suppose we should be grateful that Mum had a good imagination. She was never conventional. She said Dad wasn’t either, which might be why he ran off with that exotic dancer.’ Sam couldn’t remember much about her father although looking back on her mum’s old photos of him, she supposed he was handsome in a nineteen-eighties big hair and moustache kind of way. None of the Lovells had any contact with him whatsoever and Sam was content to leave things that way.
In contrast, she saw her mum as clear as day, as if she were standing in front of the girls now. Roz Lovell had been slim and pretty even in her late forties, always stylishly if Bohemianly dressed in clothes she’d ‘re-purposed’ from charity shops and festivals. With only one parent working as an art lecturer at the local college, there had never been a lot of money around at Wavecrest, but there had been plenty of creativity and laughter.
Zennor looked a lot like her mother, apart from the green hair. Sam’s own light brown curls were her mum’s too, but her mother, always honest, had said her oldest daughter had her father’s features. Barry Lovell had left them when she was only eight. From the few photos of him, Sam found it hard to judge. Ryan had looked like their mum, in Sam’s opinion, but maybe that was because she didn’t want to think her brother took after their father in any way.
‘I’m not even sure we all have the same dad. How do we know?’ Zennor had once said.
‘Because Mum said so. Her word was good enough for me,’ Sam had replied with a fierceness that surprised even herself.
Plus, the two girls looked just like each other. Or they would, if Zennor didn’t have mojito-coloured hair. She lifted a tendril.
‘Do you like it?’ Zennor swished her locks. ‘It is very mermaidy. Ben said it was “cool” and I didn’t even need to ask him first.’
‘Wow. That’s progress.’ Sam pictured Ben, six feet five of gawky awkwardness who took the idea of ‘strong but silent’ to the extreme, in Sam’s opinion. Half the time, you could hardly get a word out of him he was so shy. Sam had been amazed that he’d volunteered for the festival committee. On the other hand, Zennor had enough to say for the pair of them. ‘I’m still sure he’s completely smitten with you.’
Zennor sighed. ‘I thought so too, once, but he’s keeping it very well hidden if he does fancy me. We’ve known each other since school so I’ve given up waiting for him to say anything. He’s a brilliant designer and I trust him as a business partner one hundred per cent and he is gorgeous in a geeky has-no-idea-of-his-own-attractiveness way.’
‘Isn’t that the best way?’ Sam said, remembering how Gabe’s lack of ego and lack of respect for appearances had attracted her when she was younger. He’d brushed off all the abuse while he was serving at the fish and chip shop – some of it bordering on racist – but it must have stung.
‘Sam?’
‘Ow!’
Zennor had touched her arm with the cold glass, making Sam squeak like the pigs.
‘You were miles away.’
‘Yeah …’ Sam looked down at her hands. ‘Gabe’s coming back to Porthmellow.’
Zennor almost dropped the glass and mojito splashed onto to the couch. ‘What? I don’t understand – why? When?’
‘I found out earlier today. Kris Zachary had to pull out because his business has gone bust. Gabe’s taken his place.’
Zennor’s remaining mojito splashed out of the glass in her excitement. ‘Now, hold on. Slow down. Why does Gabe had to be involved?’
‘Because Chloe asked him to.’
‘What? Doesn’t she know about you and him – about Ryan and the trouble he caused?’
‘No. Why would she? She’s had no cause to even think of Gabe until today but when she heard Kris had pulled out, she phoned round some of her London events contacts. One of them knew Gabe and you can guess the rest.’
‘Fuccckkk. You must have almost fainted.’
‘Not quite. I was gobsmacked, but what could I say? Chloe had no idea of the connection and she still doesn’t. I had to pretend I was pleased, but I’ll have to tell her something at least before she hears it on the village gossip mill.’
‘My God. I’m amazed. I mean – Gabe must know you run the festival. How can he even think of showing his face again?’
‘I suppose he knows I’m involved but Chloe did ask him directly so perhaps he felt obliged.’
Zennor whistled loudly and the guinea pigs ran up to her feet. ‘Well, boys,’ she said. ‘Whoddathought Gabe Mathias would be back in town. He was the love of your auntie Sam’s life. She was always saying “oh, he’s so insecure underneath the bravado. He has no idea how gorgeous he is—”’
‘That was years ago!’ Sam protested. ‘When I was young and naïve. I know better now and anyway, I could never have stayed involved with a guy who’d turned my own brother in to the police.’
Zennor stroked the pigs. ‘No way. It’s a deal breaker.’ She sat next to Sam. ‘I really wish he wasn’t coming back. I know how hurt you were when he told the police about Ryan. I hated him too, so God knows what you must have gone through. Even though I was young, and probably not much help, I understood a lot more than you thought. I just didn’t know how to say it, or help you.’
Sam looked at her and a lump formed in her throat. ‘No one could help. There was no answer to a situation like that. I suppose Gabe did what he had to do. I had no right to ask him not to report Ryan. I wished I hadn’t even tried.’ Sam swallowed the lump, thinking back to the night that Gabe had told her he was going to the police. He’d turned up on her doorstep with a face as white as uncooked pastry. He’d started the conversation with some shit about being sorry and that he’d had to make the most difficult decision of his life. Then he’d dropped the bombshell that he’d found out Ryan had been part of the gang planning a robbery of the amusement arcade, and was planning others, and that he was going to tell the police.
Sam shuddered when she remembered that night. She’d totally lost it. She’d cried and shouted and begged Gabe not to do it. She’d even grabbed at him and flung the ultimate piece of emotional blackmail at him: ‘If you loved me, you wouldn’t do this to my family …’ She’d clung to him to stop him from leaving, but he’d prised her off him and walked out of the door.
She’d tried to call Ryan as soon as Gabe had left, but it was too late. It turned out that there had been no point begging Gabe. He’d already made the call before he turned up at the cottage, probably in case Sam warned her brother. Which was exactly what she had tried to do. Ryan was caught red-handed with two accomplices while the theft was in progress. Gabe hadn’t even trusted Sam …
He’d been right not to.
‘Sam?’ Zennor was at her side, her arm around Sam’s back. ‘Even though I’m angry with Gabe, it’s you I’m really worried about. This has really rattled you, hasn’t it?’
Sam’s body tensed. That night she’d not only lost Gabe and Ryan, but her self-respect and pride, not that she’d ever admit as much to a soul, not even to Zennor. ‘A bit, but it’s gone now. Gabe and me – we’re history. The festival is way bigger than me and if he can help it be a success then I suppose I’ll have to live with it.’ She forced a smile. ‘Let’s not waste any more time and energy on the past. Why don’t I put the pigs away while you dish up dinner?’
Once the pigs were tucked up, Zennor served the fajitas and the girls sat around the little kitchen table so they could help themselves to the peppers, onions, beans and accompaniments. Despite her long and busy day, Sam had no appetite though she did her best with the meal for Zennor’s sake.
No matter what she thought, Gabe was going to be part of the festival and she’d inevitably have to have some contact with him, even if Chloe did most of the liaising. How would she react when she saw him again? She’d thought she’d put him to the back of her mind but that was while he was hundreds of miles away. How would he have changed in eleven years? She knew he was knockout gorgeous from his TV shows, and his dry sense of humour and easy air of self-confidence came over well on screen, but was it only a persona? It was one thing watching him through the safety of a screen. How the hell would she handle seeing him in the flesh?
Chapter Six
@Porthmellowchick: Wow. Gabe Mathias is heading the #summerfestival. Can’t wait. @cornishmaid
@pastyman: LOL. he is a Grade A Tosser. #summerfestival #snitch
‘Mizzle’s coming in.’ Troy brushed water from his cap as he walked into the Fisherman’s Institute for the committee meeting. Sam had rarely seen him out in public without it. It was a classic fisherman’s cap with a soft top and a peak, and must once been black but was now faded by the sun and creased by saltwater. Beneath it, she knew Troy still had a decent growth of hair, having glimpsed it when he’d removed the cap briefly to attend the funeral of a local sailor.
‘It is,’ said Sam, laying out her notebook and tablet on the table in the upstairs meeting room. ‘How’s Evie?’
‘All right enough. Knee’s playing her up. Always does when mizzle comes in.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Sam liked Evie a lot. In fact, everyone liked Evie and Troy was devoted to her, but over the past few years, painful osteoarthritis had reduced Evie’s mobility massively. She was waiting for a knee op in the hope that would help.
‘She doesn’t complain, my Evie. Is there a brew on?’ Troy asked hopefully.
‘Not yet. I’ve only just got here myself.’
Troy grunted. ‘I’ll put one on. If you want a job doing, you know what they say.’
‘I do,’ Sam said, smiling to herself. Troy rarely required an answer to his questions. Irascible and grumpy, with a very dodgy sense of humour, he drove a few people up the wall. He also knew every inch of the town and everyone in it. Small and lithe, he still worked part-time for the harbour commission even though he was now eighty. His official title was ‘Festival Facilitator’, which really meant ‘Fixer’. Troy liaised with the harbour commission and numerous other local issues and people, who could otherwise have been very tricky to deal with.
She heard him whistling ‘Trelawney’ in the kitchenette off the smaller upstairs meeting room. The granite building had ceased to be a refuge for the fishermen many years previously and was now a community venue that anyone could use. Downstairs, the larger function space played host to always-sozzled parties, sometimes-sozzled wakes, the ‘Knit and Knatterers’ and many other local groups. The festival committee met there at least once a week in the run-up to the festival. During the event itself, the Institute acted as Festival HQ, providing a hub to deal with any problems or emergencies and a place where all the volunteers could refuel and refresh.
In addition to Troy and the other six main committee members, there were dozens of people who helped to manage all the different aspects of the event. There were countless issues to think about: she’d been astonished when she’d realised quite how much. Without all her helpers, it would never even have got off the ground. With scores of stalls, thousands of visitors over the festival weekend and a budget of tens of thousands, it had evolved into a proper big deal.
Word had travelled that Gabe would replace Kris, as she’d known it would. It had to. Chloe, Sam and their helpers had spent the past day taking down the posters. Fortunately, Kris’s name had only gone on around a hundred flyers and his name wasn’t on the festival banners, thank God, so that had saved money and work.
Zennor had also taken charge of altering all the online website literature, while Chloe had drafted a press release about the change and sent it out to her contacts. It had generated a few stories in the regional media, Kris’s bad fortune had a silver lining for Porthmellow, attracting some extra and much-needed publicity. But as for dealing with the return of the man himself, Sam was still dreading it. Many of the locals would still remember that she’d split with Gabe and why. She’d gone to the meeting at the Fisherman’s Institute, bracing herself for comments about their past relationship. She’d already begged Zennor not to make any sarcastic remarks about Gabe, which would make the situation even more awkward than it already was.
A few minutes after Troy, Zennor arrived, chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen with Ben and Drew. Ben said very little in reply and slouched by the table, as if he was trying to melt into the background. Sam was amused because if Ben had wanted to be inconspicuous, he’d have been better off not wearing black motorcycle leathers and eyeliner that made him look like a character in the steampunk novels that Zennor loved so much. He’d ridden into Porthmellow from his place, a wooden chalet on a site near Mousehole. He really had turned into a stunning young guy, but was still painfully shy.
Sam did hear him say a few words to Drew about his new bike; some exchange about engine capacities that temporarily silenced Zennor. Ben had known Drew since childhood, and besides, Drew was the type of guy who was so unobtrusively approachable, you felt you could tell him your deepest darkest secrets.
Zennor flitted over to Troy who was carrying a tray out of the kitchen. ‘Want any help with the drinks?’ she asked.
Troy chuckled. ‘Thanks, my maid. We’d better put the kettle on again now the rabble have arrived.’
Zennor whipped a teabag out of her messenger bag. ‘Will do. I’ve brought my own tea.’
Troy did his best gargoyle impression. ‘Not that scented muck?’
‘If you mean Earl Grey, no. It’s Moroccan mint. I got it from the deli in Newlyn.’
‘Why d’you waste your money on that? I’d have dug you up a few plants from my garden. Bloody garden’s overrun with mint. It’s only a posh nettle, you know.’
‘I like it,’ said Zennor firmly. ‘And it’s very good for your gut health.’
Troy chuckled. ‘Mebbe I will try some then. You know I have a few problems in that direction.’
Zennor paled. ‘I’d better put the kettle on!’ she said, zipping into the kitchen, leaving Sam trying to hold in her laughter. Troy wasn’t shy in discussing his digestive problems, in front of anyone, friend or stranger. None of them seemed too serious, but they often surfaced – apparently – when he’d had too many pickled eggs in the pub.
Soon everyone had a steaming mug in front of them, and Sam steeled herself for a brew that was bound to be strong enough to strip paint off a trawler’s hull.
‘So, the local hero is finally coming back to Porthmellow, eh?’ Troy sipped his tea and smacked his lips. ‘Mind you, he probably wants to get in our good books himself on account of how we’re going to be seeing a lot more of him from now on.’
‘What do you mean?’ Sam asked, disquiet rippling her stomach.
Troy’s bushy eyebrows waggled in surprise, like a couple of excited caterpillars. ‘Haven’t you heard? I’d have thought you’d have been up to date with all his movements. He’s taken a lease on Clifftop House and I reckon he might be interested in expanding his empire down here. You know the old Net Loft is empty? The one that was a Thai restaurant … or was it Malaysian? Or Spanish? I dunno, I don’t eat much foreign food.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
‘No, you’re only on the committee of one of the south west’s most successful food festivals, aren’t you, Troy?’ Drew said, shaking his head, and Troy chuckled at the joke.
Sam was less amused. Her stomach swirled again as the implication of Troy’s comment sank in. Gabe was renting Clifftop House? That was moments from her own front door … and he was possibly looking at buying a restaurant in Porthmellow? This got worse and worse …
‘I’m strictly here to advise on matters relating to the harbour. Ask me about moorings or vessel wash, and I’ll give you chapter and verse, but I’m no gourmet. Unless it’s out of the sea. I know my dab from my whiting,’ Troy said proudly.
‘Sorry to interrupt the culinary discussion but where did you hear all this?’ Sam asked.
‘And moving into the big house? That’s almost next door to us!’ Zennor shot Sam a none-too-subtle glance.
‘Where did you hear about Gabe being interested in the Net Loft, Troy?’ Drew asked, his interest obviously piqued. Even though he’d been older than Gabe, Sam knew they’d got on well.
‘Maddie Mylor’s auntie told me,’ Troy said. ‘Mind, she did say it was confidential and Maddie had asked her not to pass it on but she won’t mind you knowing. Half the town does anyway or will soon enough. Maddie said that some London type called her about empty premises and about a house for rent. That’s probably why he could step in at short notice, because he’s moving down here … Didn’t you and Gabe have a thing a while back?’ Troy said, turning to Sam. ‘You were sweet on him until that business with young Ryan, weren’t you?’
Even though she could have cheerfully throttled Troy, Sam managed to keep her tone light. ‘We went out briefly, a very long time ago. We were only kids.’
‘You were twenty. Gabe was twenty-one,’ said Drew. ‘From what I can recall.’
‘Sometimes, Drew, I wonder why we’re friends,’ said Sam, with a smile in her eyes.
‘So do I.’ Drew’s cornflower eyes twinkled in his face as they exchanged glances. He was in his late thirties now, with caramel hair naturally highlighted from his life outdoors brushing his shoulders. He was rugged, fit and gave off an air of easy capability that was very appealing, especially tonight, dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a dark blue shirt that suited his colouring really well. Sam was slightly surprised to see him out of his usual T-shirt and work trousers and wondered if he had a date. Sadly, his marriage to Katya had only lasted a few years, and Connor, now eleven, lived with his mum. As far as Sam was aware, there hadn’t been anyone ‘significant’ since. They had that much in common. A thought suddenly struck her … Gabe … what if he brought a partner with him? A girlfriend. Oh God.
Sam’s mind churned at the prospect of Gabe’s love life.
‘Sam?’ Troy’s eyes bored into her. ‘You were miles away, maid.’
‘Sorry.’ Sam forced herself to focus on the festival. ‘Well, if Gabe does intend to move to Porthmellow, it can only make our job easier,’ she said briskly. ‘If he’s around, it will be simpler for the committee to deal with him, not that I expect he’ll want to get his hands dirty by talking to us direct until the day itself. He’ll have a team of people for that. I’ll put Chloe in charge of liaising with them, since she dealt with them in the first place and has contacts.’
She was aware she sounded a bit stuffy and pompous but she didn’t care. It was inevitable she’d have to speak to and see Gabe at some point, but she intended to have as little to do with him as possible. After what had happened between them the last time they’d seen each other, she was absolutely sure he felt the same.
She checked her watch. They should have started the actual meeting almost fifteen minutes ago, but one of their party was missing. ‘More importantly, where’s Chloe got to? It’s not like her to be late. I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
Chapter Seven
Chloe perched on a stool at the breakfast bar and punched Hannah’s number into her phone before she could chicken out. This was a bad idea. Her daughter would see it was ‘Mum’ calling and probably not pick up. The most likely scenario was that the call would go to voicemail again.
Her thumb hovered over the off button.
‘Mum?’
She gripped the phone. ‘Hannah?’
‘Who else would it be?’
‘No one, but … it’s good to hear you.’
Silence. A pause. Would her daughter ring off? ‘Is everything OK?’
‘Yes. Fine … We’re fine. I’m fine and Dad was, the last time I spoke to him. I only wanted to see if you and Ruby are OK.’
Another pause. ‘Yes. We’re OK.’
Chloe couldn’t stand the tension. She heard noises: doors opening; doors slamming?
‘I should go,’ Hannah said.
‘Not yet, please. I … Are you …’ Is he there? Chloe ached to ask the question but it was too incendiary. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘I was. But not now.’
‘Oh. I see.’
‘Why do you ask, Mum?’
Hannah wasn’t stupid. ‘No reason. I only wanted to see how you were. To see if there’s any way we can … come together. I hate – I mean I’m really sad about – the way things have gone between us.’
Chloe heard a man’s voice clearly saying ‘Hannah? Who is it?’ That had to be Jordan. Was he controlling Hannah? Threatening her? Chloe wanted to be sick.
‘I have to go, Mum. Ruby’s crying.’
‘Is she OK?’
‘Of course she’s OK. Why wouldn’t she be? I can look after her.’
Suddenly, the conversation had taken a turn for the worse. ‘Hannah. Wait. I wasn’t implying that you couldn’t …’
‘I have to go.’ There was a note of desperation in Hannah’s tone. Chloe couldn’t hear Jordan anymore, but could sense his presence from two hundred miles away.
‘OK. Hannah, I want you to know that you can call me any time or text or email me. Or your father. If you need us.’
‘Mum. I’m fine. Please, why won’t you understand that I’m fine …’ There was a child’s wail and then the male voice again. Chloe couldn’t hear what was said but Hannah muttered, ‘Yes, I’m coming!’ Then, ‘Sorry.’
The phone clicked off. Chloe stared at it in her hand before tossing it onto the sofa. She hugged herself and paced around the flat. Fine. I’m fine. For God’s sake, that phrase had to be the biggest lie on the planet. Hannah and Chloe had both said it to each other more than once when the opposite was clearly true.
Yet Hannah had at least taken the call. That had to be something and all Chloe’s instincts as a mum told her that Hannah wanted to take a step towards reconciliation … but the call had also left her no further forward. Jordan was in the house, and possibly listening in to Hannah’s side of the conversation. Maybe when her daughter had some time alone, she might call back … Plus those final comments … what did they mean?
‘Yes, I’m coming!’ That was obviously meant for Jordan. Or possibly little Ruby. And the ‘Sorry’ – that could have been directed at either of them, or at Chloe herself. Or maybe she was overthinking things. She was at a loss for what to do next, if anything at all. Instinct made her want to rush over to Bristol that minute, but common sense told her to leave things as they were, and hope Hannah reached out to her.